Chapter 10: More a Lion Than the Lannisters
"Bear, bear, great black bear!"
"Black and brown, all wrapped in fur!"
"Bear! Bear!"
"Oh, they say—come see the beauty!"
"A beauty? He knows—but I'm a bear!"
"Black and brown, all wrapped in fur!"
"Scenting maidens, mead so sweet!"
"Tear the dress and show the—hahahaha!!!"
On the muddy highways of the Riverlands, rough voices echoed through the air. The song—long since twisted beyond recognition—was bellowed out by the Brave Companions, its lyrics stuffed full of obscene vulgarities.
Vargo Hoat rode at the head of the column, his hoarse voice leading the chorus. Though the wound on his ear still throbbed faintly and his head felt heavy, the loot from the farm and the enormous ransom soon to come put him in high spirits.
The air was thick with merriment.
Hanging from nearly every saddle were stolen goods and pieces of silverware—proof that, along the way to hunting down the Kingslayer, they'd picked up plenty of "unexpected spoils."
To them, war wasn't suffering.
It was a feast laid out by the gods.
At the rear of the column, the raucous singing reached Jaime Lannister's ears. He lifted his head slightly and sneered,
"If Robert Baratheon were still alive, he'd fit right in with this lot."
"That king so fat he could barely climb onto a horse—he always loved singing this song after whoring or drinking himself senseless."
His voice was low, laced with the same irreverent mockery as ever.
Even with one hand gone, with his former pride and honor trampled into the mud like refuse or a dead dog—and even after being tricked into drinking a whole skin of horse piss—he still hadn't lost that habit.
Brienne frowned.
Though captured, she never stopped holding herself to the code of knighthood. Any mockery of a dead king unsettled her.
"King Robert was a mighty warrior," she retorted stiffly.
"He defeated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat—and won the war!"
"Heh. If I hadn't killed the Mad King, all he would've won was a pile of ruins…"
Jaime instinctively curled his lip in disdain.
Catching Brienne's puzzled look, he paused, then quickly changed the subject with another barb:
"A king who ends up drunk in the woods, gutted by a boar."
"Poetic, isn't it?"
"Just like us—an honorable Kingsguard knight and the Maid of Tarth—now prisoners of these scum."
"We're only in this state because we were outnumbered," Brienne snapped back.
"There's no shame in that, Kingslayer!"
"Yes. Outnumbered."
Jaime murmured thoughtfully.
"Back then, Barristan the Bold could charge alone into tens of thousands and still take off Maelys the Monstrous's head."
"If I hadn't been locked up in Riverrun for so long—letting my sword arm and my bones rust—every one of these bastards could rush me at once and still wouldn't stand a chance."
Jaime clenched his teeth, resentment burning in his eyes.
As the youngest man ever to be appointed to the Kingsguard, he had never once doubted his own excellence.
Hearing this, Brienne wanted to retort—but when her gaze fell on the hand that had been severed only because he had spoken up to protect her, the words died in her throat.
She took a deep breath and, almost unconsciously, looked toward the front of the column—toward that calm figure riding ahead.
"You shouldn't have worked with him."
"That man—Odin—could have remained innocent. Instead, he chose to aid evil, betraying his own farm and his lord."
"Traitors are not worthy of trust."
"Trust?"
Jaime let out a soft laugh.
"Trust is rarer than Valyrian steel out here, my lady. And don't forget—sitting right behind you is a Kingslayer."
As he spoke, he turned his head slightly, glancing forward.
"I don't need to trust him."
"I only need to know what he wants. And I'm quite certain what he wants isn't merely survival."
"This morning, just standing there, he looked more like a lion than any Lannister I've ever known."
"He even reminded me of—"
Jaime had been about to say my father.
But before the words left his mouth, their low-voiced conversation caught Igo's attention.
He spurred his horse forward and barked harshly,
"Shut your mouths! No talking! And you, cow—unless you want to see what it's like to be dragged behind a horse!"
Before Jaime could react, Igo slammed the pommel of his sword hard into Jaime's ribs.
"Ugh—!"
Jaime grunted as pain bent him double, but he clenched his jaw and made no further sound.
Brienne glared furiously—but before she could speak, another voice cut in first.
"Hey! Easy, you Dothraki brute!"
It was Urswyck.
He rode up and deliberately bumped Igo's horse aside, snapping,
"Don't break him!"
"Whether it's the King in the North or Tywin Lannister, what they want is a living Kingslayer—not a corpse. That man's worth a mountain of gold dragons!"
Igo cast Urswyck a cold glance, one hand resting on his sword hilt as he replied bluntly,
"Then watch the prisoners properly. Don't let them keep thinking about escape."
"If the gold runs away, I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to the horses."
The provocation was unmistakable.
Urswyck's face darkened instantly, his hand moving toward his own weapon.
"What are you implying, Igo? Looking for trouble?"
At once, members of the Brave Companions began gathering around them, splitting naturally into two opposing groups.
Just as Odin had anticipated—
Behind Urswyck stood Rorge, Biter, and the newer recruits.
At Igo's side were seven or eight of the company's old hands.
The tension became razor-sharp.
"Enough! Shut the fuck up!"
Vargo Hoat's roar thundered from the front.
He reined in his zebra and turned around. His eyes—bloodshot from both hangover and fever—glared savagely at the two factions.
"Keep moving. Anyone who starts fighting among themselves, I'll cut out his tongue first and drink with it!"
Vargo had long sensed the company's internal fractures—and Urswyck's ambitions.
But right now, his priority was getting back to Harrenhal alive. He had no intention of stirring more trouble on the road.
At the captain's command, Igo snorted coldly and ignored Urswyck's livid expression. He squeezed his knees to his horse and surged forward, returning to his position between Odin and Vargo, once again appearing utterly loyal.
Urswyck, meanwhile, stared darkly at Vargo's swaying back, licking his lips as impatience churned inside him. In the end, he forced himself to stay calm and let the matter drop.
The two groups soon dispersed, the column moving forward once more.
Seeing Jaime lower his head again, Brienne asked quietly, concern in her voice,
"Are you all right?"
Jaime slowly raised his head.
There was no anger in his eyes—no pain.
Through the filthy strands of hair, those lion-green eyes burned with a light she hadn't seen in a very long time.
He grinned, feral and sharp.
"All right?"
"I've never been better, my dear Brienne."
She froze.
Jaime didn't explain. Instead, he flexed his remaining left wrist and quietly slipped a small, curved dagger into his sleeve.
The cold touch of steel was like a spring breeze—awakening the lion long dormant within him.
Instinctively, Jaime's gaze drifted forward.
"Was it you… Odin?"
he wondered.
The thought seemed absurd. The man was nothing more than a lowborn farmer, surviving only because of his medical skill.
And yet—
Jaime could find no other explanation for why that Dothraki had helped him, openly and in front of everyone.
Then, in the very moment he lifted his head, Jaime's heart skipped.
Ahead of him, Odin had turned his body at some point—now calmly looking straight at him.
Those bottomless black eyes seemed to see straight through the storm churning inside Jaime's chest.
Odin raised his right hand and placed a single finger to his lips.
Shh.
Then—still seated atop his sorry horse—he inclined his head in a subtle, elegant bow.
The gesture was so brief it felt unreal.
Before Jaime could even react, Odin turned forward again, swaying gently with the rhythm of the column.
Once more, he became ordinary and silent, as though that fleeting exchange had never happened.
Jaime clenched the dagger in his sleeve, his knuckles whitening.
That posture.
That bearing.
More composed than any courtier or noble he had ever met.
"So that's it…"
"Odin."
Jaime drew in a sharp breath, excitement surging through him as the realization settled.
"Compared to those useless Lannisters back home…"
"You're far more like a lion than any of them."
"…a true lion."